Review of 2008 Dublin Marathon

by Mark Coyle

Bad weather and heavy half-term holiday traffic saw to it that Tracey and I were still nursing cups of coffee at Birmingham Airport departure lounge well over an hour after our forty minute flight should have landed in the Irish capital for our second marathon run of 2008.  The flight – when we finally got airborne - was uneventful apart that is until the lady sat next to us asked the stewardess - a leggy, blonde Russian type - for a biscuit to go with her cup of tea.

“Biscuits?” mumbled the hostess “We only have a missile bar” was the heavily accented reply.

Given all the security precautions you now have to undertake before boarding a plane these days, - and believe me Tracey should know.  The offer of a “missile bar” by the in flight crew was a tad disconcerting. Had the Russians some how managed to turn billions of roubles worth of surplus stock piled cold war weapons into a chocolate covered snacks to dunk in yer tea? It turned out to be a muesli bar, but for a second there we were all a bit worried.

Foreign staffing became a recurring theme for the whole weekend. Eastern Europeans on the Ryan Air flight, Chinese staff in the restaurant of the pub we went to on the first night, (ask Paul Kenning about the girl with the child bearing cheeks)Polish bus drivers, Italian waiters, Russians and Africans on reception at the apartment block in Christchurch. French girls serving behind the bar in the pub. I think it was three days before we spoke to an Irish person.

Glancing down through the narrow oval window at the white crested waves of the Irish Sea I was glad that we had flown across instead of taking the ferry. Little did we know that the weather was playing havoc with the lads and lasses attempting the races in Cumbria, Snowdonia. I had visions of the guys being blown of the cliffs at Beachy Head too. Driving rain and swirling winds whipped at us as we ran across the tarmac to the shelter of the terminal before we found the bus to take us into the city.  Ten euros for an open ended return seemed good value for the twenty five minute ride but it was still persisting it down when we staggered up the hill to the apartment block a little while later the final two of the Sphinx runners to arrive. Uncle Terry Daly greeted us with a big grin and steaming hot mugs of tea and some digestive biccies. We quickly unpacked and headed out for a bite to eat.  I noted that both Terry and Paul were clearly in touch with their feminine sides as both had pitched up with their man-bags (big girls’ blouses the pair of ‘em). Both candidly admitted to me that they were too scared to use them at home. Don’t worry lads your secret is safe with me.

The following morning was Expo day so, after Terry Daly had shaved my head – once a barber, always a barber - we headed out for the full Irish Breakfast. Tracey upset the waiter by asking for a toasted bacon sandwich.  This, it appeared, was not possible to do. But it was possible for Tracey to have two slices of toast and a few rashers of bacon on a plate. It was beyond the wit and wisdom of the chef to put the rashers between the two slices of toast and form a sandwich. At the risk of setting off a diplomatic incident (akin to the now infamous E45 episode at Birmingham Airport) we scoffed down our brekkies and set off in the weak Autumn sunshine on the two mile walk across the centre of the Irish capital to the expo at Ballsbridge to meet up with Bob, Helen and Liz and to pick up our race paraphernalia. On the way we decided to recce the start and finish points at St Stephens Green and Merrion Square. Two lush green islands surrounded by a sea of concrete and commercialism. The barriers for both the finish and the start line were going up and that certain roads had already been closed in preparation. Crossing St Stephen’s Green we spotted a small group of runners – two men and a woman – moving briskly around the park indulging in a warm up for tomorrow’s event. When they lapped us for the third time as we leisurely strolled I hollered out

“No-one likes a show off.”

Just for a laugh you understand amongst, kindred spirits of the running fraternity, who would surely see the funny side, you know brotherhood and bonhomie, hands across the water and all that. Well, if looks could kill. The woman looked daggers in our direction. Quick as a flash I turned to Terry and shouted overly loudly

“There was no need for that Terry”

in order to deflect attention from myself. Didn’t work though. Some people, no sense of humour. We finally arrived at the Expo mainly thanks to Lorraine’s map reading and organisational skills and some directions from a friendly Garda officer.

The Expo was on a smaller scale to London and we were quickly herded upstairs to get our chips and race numbers then sent on a one way system over a mat to activate our chips which were attached to our race numbers. As you crossed the mat your name, number and country i.e. Mark Coyle 11476 GBR appeared on a TV screen next to the mat. For some reason Tracey’s name didn’t appear but the official insisted that everything was okay. The Expo was the first chance for everyone from Sphinx to meet up and Helen, Liz and Bob Torley and his good lady sat down at the pasta party (great… more pasta) before daubing slogans and messages of support on the Adidas “Impossible is nothing” wall.

In true time honoured running tradition we pitched up an Italian Restaurant later that evening for our pre-run pasta (triffic……even more pasta) meal.  The owner of the restaurant noted that we were running the marathon and very kindly brought over a free tray of drinks for us all in the shape of several small glasses filled with a bright yellowy/green liquid. We were a bit dubious at first but “in for a penny” and we all toasted ourselves knocking it back in one. To this day, and no-one will convince me otherwise, I’m sure it was Lemsip. But hey it was a free drink and you don’t want to be upsetting Italians when they make you an offer you can’t refuse, unless you want you want to wake up with a horses head in your bed. So we smiled politely and thanked the owner for his generosity, and so to bed ready for the early start on race day. Poor Terry had drawn the short straw and was sleeping on the bed settee in the lounge.  I didn’t feel sorry for him. Nice bloke and all that but he snores like a freight train frankly and kept setting off car alarms in the street outside. Thankfully the day dawned bright, clear and crisp and everyone’s mood was brightened by watching Lorraine eating her pre-race porridge.  If you ever get the chance to room with Paul and Lorraine for a marathon then this is a must it’s like a cross between Gollum, Mr Bean and Lee Evans.  As you can imagine with four marathon runners crammed full of pasta, potatoes and porridge, the toilet was melting faster than a Russian nuclear reactor by the time we came to leave and join the other Sphinx bods in the 12000 runners at the start.

As for the race, Dublin is flat and very much on a par with London. The route is pleasant enough although fairly unspectacular with very little in the way of famous landmarks or buildings to look at as you wend your way around the 26.2. Surprisingly the crowds are pretty thin too although you do tend to get large clumps of raucous supporters at street corners and junctions. They are very vocal especially if you put your name on your vest. Terry waved us off at the start and the headed for the eleven mile point.

Try as we might we couldn’t find Bob or Helen at the start so tall Paul Kenning and I ran together and Tracey and Lorraine ran together. I couldn’t help but notice as we worked through the early miles that he was getting more shouts of encouragement that I appeared to be. Obviously this didn’t bother me. Clearly the crowds felt the big man obviously needed more encouragement. Paul though, who is clearly insecure and requires to be noticed, constantly reminded me of this. I can only assume that I was running so quickly that my name was just a blur to them. While, Paul – whom as we all know is over ten feet tall and a bit of a freak really – had stuck his name in a flashing neon sign on the front of his vest. This, and the fact that he had brought most of his family over meant that he was obviously going to get more shouts. The last straw for me came at around 16 miles when he stopped to sign autographs! At this point I left him to it and ran the rest of the race on my own. Although the shouts from the crowd of “Hey Mark, where’s Paul?” did begin to grate after a while.  We spotted Terry and Liz at the eleven mile point and caught up with Bob Torley just after half way. It gives you a real lift to find a friendly face.

As you would expect with a race celebrating its 29th year Dublin is very well organised affair. They have water stations every three miles with gel and sports drink stops available during the later stages. The finish has a real London feel as wind your way past the university back into the heart of the city where big crowds encroached onto the road with there enthusiasm. Although London dwarves its Irish counterpart in its sheer scale, Dublin still retains that big race atmosphere without London’s overwhelming crush.  It is a pricey run though at a minimum of fifty euros, and if you think that’s expensive wait until you hit the pubs. Just for the record the Russian Andriy Naumov completed a hat-trick of wins with a time of 2:11.06 two minutes outside his record time set last year. The women’s race became a sprint between Larisa Zousko of the Ukraine and Haile Kebebush of Ethiopa. The Russian won by one second in a time of 2:30:02.

Talking of hitting the pubs. Temple bar was calling so after a quick snooze, shower and shave we were off for a well earned feed and several pints of the black stuff. We were then joined by Helen, Liz and the gang and the drink flowed as tales of the race were regaled. It was in the wee small hours before we turned in. Poor Tez had to be up at some ungodly hour for his flight home. I didn’t feel sorry for him though. As I said before, the bloke snores like a freight train.

The next morning Tracey set off to meet up with a relative while Loz and Paul went shoplifting at the Ted Baker store. I dropped into an internet café and checked our times – all except Tracey – whom we now know despite the assurances of the official at the expo had a faulty chip and her time was not recorded around the course.  Please, don’t mention this in Tracey’s presence it’s like mentioning the war to the Germans. The race authorities will no doubt be hearing form a whole team of lawyers.

Planting myself in the Mercantile pub next to an overly loud party of Italian men discussing yesterday’s race I bought a pint of the black stuff and a copy of the Irish Times. Reading the article on the marathon I glanced at the photos and noted a man dressed as the Guinness Toucan running beside a man dressed as a pint of the black stuff. Then I nearly spilt my pint, swearing so loudly in surprise that it stopped the Italians in mid sentence. There in the middle of the Ireland’s most popular national daily paper were Lorraine and Tracey in all there Sphinx AC glory. Not only that but we later spotted Bob Torley in the photo of the mass start above.  12 000 runners and lord knows how many press pictures were taken, and there in the middle of the Irish Times is not one, not two but three Sphinx runners. That evening we met up with Helen and did a mini tour of Temple Bar before finishing with a slap up Chinese meal, where we planned our next Marathon trip. Edinburgh here we come.